Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/422

 The moving splendor touches him with awe—

'T is glory shed around the common weal,

And he will pay his tribute willingly,

Though with the pennies earned by sordid toil.

Perhaps the hero's deeds have helped to bring

A time when every honest citizen

Shall wear a coat unpatched. And yet he feels

More easy fellowship with neighbors there

Who look on too; and he will soon relapse

From noticing the banners and the steeds

To think with pleasure there is just one bun

Left in his pocket, that may serve to tempt

The wide-eyed lad, whose weight is all too much

For that young mother's arms: and then he falls

To dreamy picturing of sunny days

When he himself was a small big-cheeked lad

In some far village where no heroes came,

And stood a listener 'twixt his father's legs

In the warm firelight, while the old folk talked

And shook their heads and looked upon the floor;

And he was puzzled, thinking life was fine—

The bread and cheese so nice all through the year

And Christmas sure to come. Oh that good time!

He, could he choose, would have those days again

And see the dear old-fashioned things once more.

But soon the wheels and drums have all passed by

And tramping feet are heard like sudden rain:

The quiet startles our good citizen;

He feels the child upon his arms, and knows

He is with the people making holiday

Because of hopes for better days to come.

But Hope to him was like the brilliant west

Telling of sunrise in a world unknown,

And from that dazzling curtain of bright hues

He turned to the familiar face of fields